


Bickering About Dinner

by rw_eaden



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Food, No beta we fall like Crowley, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 13:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rw_eaden/pseuds/rw_eaden
Summary: The title says it all, really. Aziraphale and Crowley bicker about dinner and that's it.





	Bickering About Dinner

“Do you know what I could really go in for right now?” Aziraphale asks. 

They’re in the den of their new little cottage, discussing dinner options. It’s only been a week that they’ve been out of London, and acclimating to life in the countryside - again - takes some getting used to. Now they actually have to discuss where to go before they meander through the streets because it’s more of a process to get from one place to the other now. It’s not a process that Crowley minds, exactly, it’s just that Aziraphale gets in a Mood when he’s hungry and they’re ambling around the city instead of making progress towards somewhere he can amble around a plate. 

“No idea,” Crowley says. 

“Do you remember that little pub in Belfast? The one run by the woman and her daughters? They had the most delightful soda farl." 

Yes, Crowley remembers. They went there three times in the same year, which was unheard of for them, at the time. "That place burnt down ages ago." 

"I know but it was so good. No one else does it the way they did. And the stobhach!”

“Aziraphale?”

“What?”

“Shut up." 

"Why?” He huffs. 

“Because you’re making me hungry and there’s no way we’re getting your soda bread or your stobhach when the only people who made it like that have been dead for a hundred years." 

Aziraphale huffs and rolls his eyes. "I know that. But I can’t help it. It was so crisp and I don’t know what she did with those potatoes -" 

"If you don’t stop I’m going to start throwing things at you.” Crowley scans the room briefly for acceptable throwing objects. Aziraphale might actually kill him if he launches the first edition Swift sitting on the coffee table at him, but the most recent publication of The Infernal Times is fair game. Why he’s still on Hell’s delivery list he has no idea, but the classified are fun enough to look at, if for no other reason than to pop in on his former coworkers and scare the piss out of them. And the coupons are decent. Last month they had one for free toppings at the new frozen yogurt stand not too far from Crowley’s flat. 

“Alright. I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says. “But we should at least find mutton - ow!” The crumpled up first page of Hell’s only newspaper bounces off the top of his head. 

“Oh, that didn’t hurt!" 

"You threw a newspaper at me!" 

"I did warn you." 

Aziraphale huffs. "Fine. I won’t talk about the farl anymore. Or the potatoes. Or the whiskey." 

"Angel,” Crowley says in a near hiss, plucking the obituary page off the top and crumbling it with as much menace as is possible while crumbling newspaper - which is to say, none at all.

“Fine! Fine. But I still think we should get mutton,” says Aziraphale.

“Nope. Bad idea." 

"Why not?” Aziraphale pouts and it’s both terribly immature and quite charming. 

“Because I want stobhach from that one little pub that no longer exists, thanks to you, and nowhere else is going to cut it. We could traipse our asses all across Ireland and Scotland and it wouldn’t be the same. It’s all going to be a giant disappointment.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Nope. Nope. No. It won’t be the same and if I let you tempt me into mutton and it’s not the same I’ll cry. I will, angel. I will actually burst into tears." 

"You don’t need to be so dramatic,” Aziraphale says, rolling his eyes like he’s not the very definition of overly dramatic when it comes to damn near everything in the history of the world. 

"Yes, I do.” And it’s not that extreme, really. If Crowley were to make a list of all the things he hates about the passage of time, up at the top, next to “they keep making the same damn mistakes why do they keep making the same mistakes haven’t they learned that authoritarians are bad?!” would be “all my favorite restaurants disappear eventually”. There are few things worse than craving food that hasn’t been available in a few centuries, or worse, millennia. 

Aziraphale sighs, folding his hands in his lap. “That what do you want to eat if mutton’s out? Hm?” He says it like a challenge. 

Crowley bites his lip, knowing full well what’s about to happen next. “I don’t know. The only thing that sounds good is that stupid little pub." 

"Honestly, Crowley!" 

"You started it you fussy nostalgic bastard." 

"Oh, I’m the one who’s fussy and nostalgic." 

"You’re always fussy!" 

"Well!” Aziraphale is pouring again, and if he were standing he’d probably have his hands planted on his hips for two seconds before he remembers he’s not supposed to look like he’s being huffy and twisting his fingers together in front of his stomach. Of course, he has nothing to say in response because they both know Crowley is right and he tries to refrain from name-calling even when Crowley is being a brat. 

“What about that little delicatessen? The one with the house-made beef bacon?" 

Crowley groans. "That’s in New York." 

"But it is still standing, isn’t it?" 

Crowley rubs his hands over his eyes. "We can’t just pop across the Atlantic for dinner." 

"Yes, we can. We’re quite capable." 

"Fuck’s sake. You’re ridiculous." 

"But the lox -" 

Crowley half-heartedly chucks the still balled up newspaper in Aziraphale’s general direction. It doesn’t hit. 

At this rate, they’re going to be arguing about dinner for a week. 

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to be writing something else (which I actually did!) but then I got hungry so this happened. Because that's what you do, you inflict your desire for food that you can't get any more on random strangers instead of your housemates because random strangers can't throw things at you when you don't shut up. :)  
[My tumblr](https://rosemoonweaver.tumblr.com/) if you're interested.


End file.
